When All Else Fails
by BassoonGirl1
Summary: Some forty years after their marriage, Emily makes the decision to leave Teddy. Note: This is a part of a larger and longer 'ending' to the story of what actually happened to the Kents - well, my version anyway. Enjoy! Please R&R! (The chapter titles come from song titles, they are not my own.)
1. Chapter 1

Emily looked around her curiously. The light that spilled in the windows was softer than she had ever expected it would be. It glimmered almost like water on the sanded floors. If she let her imagination take her home, it was like the reflection of the Blair Water on her page when she sat beside it to write. It had been a boon that all of the old, un-tempered glass was salvageable. Although it was a bit risky, she liked the way it diffused sunlight better. Teddy would love the light here. She shut off that train of thought abruptly. No. She would not start down that road now. She set her battered, leather messenger bag down on the kitchen table and stroked the wood lightly with her fingers. It had been an old work table from the factory, but she had it remade. It suited her Murray practicality to have everything that remained in the space turned into something useful or decorative, if it was at all possible. As such, the décor was slightly austere and commercial, mixed with teak and cherry wood. She had antiques here, but the warm, well-loved kind, not the pristine, perfect, and priceless kind. So, this was home now? There was a question in her mind when she thought about it in those terms. This morning and Willomere seemed ages, lifetimes away from the present. She did not want to remember that, but she did, just the same.

"Teddy, we need to talk," she said desperately, standing at the foot of the stairs as he headed across the foyer to leave. She had followed him from his office in frustration.

He turned and smiled absently, "Later, Love. I have to get to a meeting." He turned away and headed to the door.

Emily hurried ahead and blocked the doorway, "No, not later. Now!" She looked up at him. Something resembling the Murray look was on her face, and she knew it. She saw the annoyance flash across his countenance and it vexed her even more. "To hell with the meeting!"

Teddy blinked and shook his head, "Emily, come on. Be reasonable. I said we would talk about this later." He did not have time to deal with domesticity. If Emily wanted the guests to leave, she could tell them to go. He really did not understand why she wanted him to do this, all of a sudden. He really didn't understand why she was upset at all. It wasn't as if their perpetual house guests were even noticeable, the house was so large. Of course, the fact that they had arrived before Christmas and were still here in July was a bit odd, but it was just a fact of life in their position. He didn't even know who they were.

"Later? When is later, Teddy?" she shook her head in frustration. This was impossible! She had broached the subject with him so many times that she was getting tired of it herself. She was beginning to sound like a shrew, and even she knew that. Somehow, she couldn't help it. "You are never home, and when you are, you're drowning in a ledger. Wake up, for God's sake! Look at what we've become!" She spun away from him and gestured at the room with her hand, "This albatross is killing us! You haven't painted in eons, and everything we are is stagnant. Doesn't it mean anything to you anymore?"

Teddy sighed. Dimly, he knew she was right, but he had to ignore it. God knew he wanted to paint. But it just wasn't there; it hadn't been for far too long. He didn't want to admit that to her, he couldn't. Emily was still writing, more and better than ever. She had a screenplay for _The Moral of the Rose_ in Hollywood now and her second play on Broadway. Whatever inspiration drove her had not lessened over the years. But for him, Pearl Harbor had been impactful in a different way. He couldn't tell her that. More than anything, it hurt him that he couldn't talk to her about it. Instead, he flashed back, "Albatross? This is everything you ever wanted! I'm doing all of this for you!"

"I _never_ wanted this!" Emily's voice was low, but none-the-less angry. "Never! I never wanted to lose my husband to a bank account! I never thought you would do this. Not you!" She glared at him, "You're killing us, Teddy!"

"Christ! Be reasonable, Emily!" he fumed. Did she think he wanted it to be like this? Why couldn't she see that this was the last thing he wanted? In spite of how he felt, he still couldn't tell her.

Emily took a deep breath and shut her eyes. They rarely got angry with one another, and it was not productive – they both knew that. "We can't solve anything like this. Please Teddy, stay home today and let's… let's go for a walk or something… we have to sort this out. I can't… I can't live like this anymore!" The last sentence was a tortured whisper.

Teddy shut his eyes briefly, and tried to calm down himself. Regardless of how he might feel about it, and how important he knew it was, he couldn't deal with this now. "Tomorrow. We'll do it tomorrow." He couldn't look at her when she spoke that way. It reminded him too much of how she had sounded when he told her. He nodded to himself in resolution and walked out of the house. The large black car promised an escape from all of this. Here, he was floundering like a fish out of water. He could go to his office and be in control of his life again; numbers on a page were easier to understand than this.

A little piece of Emily died as she watched him leave the house and duck into the waiting car. That he could even contemplate there being something more important than their life together was like a knife through her heart; piercing and fatal. "There are no more tomorrows," she whispered.

The abandoned factory had been on the auction block and she'd bought it for a song about two years ago. It was on the southern edge of the developed area, closer to the area known as Hell's Hundred Acres. She wasn't exactly sure why she wanted it so much. She had been over in Greenwich Village with Judith Kent having lunch at one of the new bookshop-cum-coffee houses. Judith had lived here since the early 1900s, in a lovely brownstone. Although Teddy's aunt was nothing like her sister Katharine, Emily adored her. She was an editor for Foster's – a competitor to Emily's Wareham's. Judith and Janet Royal had been friends for years, so the connection was easy. When they first moved to New York, in 1926, Judith had been an invaluable source of information. Even though she was retired now, she was still energetic and delightful to be with. Emily enjoyed visiting her in the Village whenever she could, even if Teddy rarely took the time to go with her anymore.

The area was quickly becoming a mecca for young artists and creative free spirits. It was bohemian and colorful. It reminded Emily so much of Paris in the early part of the century. The building itself was lovely – red brick and old timbers, walls and ceiling riddled with glass. Judith mentioned that so many of the old factories and warehouses were being turned into quaint little shops with apartments above them. For some reason the idea appealed to Emily. Teddy had always said that real estate was never a bad investment. She hated everything associated with his business, but had to admit that he was right about that. So she bought it. She hadn't even mentioned it to Teddy. He had always been adamant that she be in charge of her own money and have her independence, so there was no need to tell him. It was easy to renovate and rent out the shop spaces on the bottom floor. The top floor was something else. Emily hired an architect to come and plan out the apartment space, but something he said about using it as a studio had really resonated with her. In her mind, Emily envisioned this as a place where she and her husband could come to get away from everything – a sanctuary for their work in this metropolis of activity. So she did it. Instead of the apartments she originally planned, the space was turned into one enormous loft dwelling. It was really supposed to be a gift for Teddy, a small token that might give him back his art.

When the telegram came about Frank, something died in Teddy. Emily knew that. Something died in her too. But for her husband it had been his painting. He did a few sketches immediately after, but they were strained and mechanical. Then, even that stopped. He hadn't drawn anything in almost nine years. When the war took his son, it took every bit of creative spark from him. The doctors said it was depression and gave him medication to take. He tried it, but similar to the morphine-based pain killers he had been prescribed for his injury after the war, lithium did not sit well with Teddy. He stopped taking it and stopped seeing the doctors who advised him to.

He had, instead, immersed himself in his business ventures: travelling, meeting with investors, negotiating with the government. They had been more than wealthy when they first came to New York. Nearly twenty-five years later it was ridiculous! The house was a monstrosity - she had never loved it, as magnificent as it was. It was Teddy's dream for her, not the way she wanted to live. She accepted it in the spirit he intended it, but never felt like it was their home. It was like living at a hotel permanently. (Emily never understood how her friend Coco could stand that.) It was forced formality and social obligation, twenty-four hours a day. When things had been good between her and Teddy, it was manageable, tolerable, and some parts of it were even fun. They could laugh together at the currying of favor and pretentious posing and then retreat to their studios and go back to being themselves. It hadn't bothered her so much then. Now it was different.

Her decision to leave this morning had made it more than different. She had tried to stay. She had tried to make it work with him, but it wasn't in her to live with a man she could not really talk to. She had not been able to talk to Teddy, not really, for years now. Every time she tried, something always got in the way. Even in their private life, he was distant and unreachable. His arm around her was habit, not affection. His kisses were cool and never contained the promise of passion they once had. She tried to pretend that was not important; they weren't newlyweds, after all. She had stayed - first for the children and then for the grandchildren. But, it wouldn't work. This morning, something snapped inside her – the straw that broke the camel's back, if you will. When she told him what she needed, he ignored it. Emily could handle a lot of things, but not that. She could not be married to a man who thought so little of her. It was almost a relief to leave. But now she had to face the reality of being a single woman again. It had been almost forty years since she had even considered that. She had never thought that Teddy would change like this. Never. She had never thought about being alone since the day he came back to her.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the unfamiliar smell of her new home. "Well E.B., best get at it!" She spoke out loud to herself and moved toward the large writing table that was set up to look out over the river. Work – her saving solace. She thought about what she needed to do: edits for Goldwyn. She pulled out the file and sat down to write.


	2. Chapter 2

Frederick Kent let himself into the bedroom silently. It was late – very late. He shouldn't wake Emily. It wasn't fair to get her up at this hour, but he certainly wanted to! He wanted to bury his head in her hair and sob. Yesterday, when he was in London, he passed by a gallery and saw a piece of his work in the window. It was an old painting; he had done it before they were married. Emily on a beach – he called it _Spirit of the Sea_. He bought it; Emily didn't like pictures of herself on display. She used to tolerate it for exhibits, of course, but didn't want them sold. He had done his best to buy them all back so she wouldn't be uncomfortable. Looking at it leaning against the wall in his office today had nearly ruined him. Oh God, he wanted to paint! He needed to paint – desperately! His wife knew this too; she had said as much the other morning, amid all of the rambling about guests and so forth. He supposed he would have to talk about that with her eventually.

At first, Emily had encouraged his drawing overtly, even offering to sit for him if he wanted. He had refused. Then she had become more subtle about it, just slipping blank sketchbooks and his favorite pencils into his luggage when he travelled, as she had done their whole life together. She had even gone so far as to write snippets of poetry for him in them, sharing her inspiration with him in hopes that he might be able to channel something, anything. Then she stopped. He wasn't sure when. It felt like an eternity since they had worked together. For him, that was like going to church. It was like communing with the other side, seeing beauty in a three-way mirror. He needed that right now, he needed to connect with something real, and the only thing that was real for him was Emily.

He knew she was disappointed in him. Somehow, no matter what he did, how many business deals he made, how much more money he poured into their bank account, she wasn't satisfied. To tell the truth, he wasn't either. It didn't matter – none of it did. It couldn't buy back their sons, and it couldn't match the way he felt when his daughters or his wife smiled at him. He hadn't seen that in a long time either, not even on paper. He removed his shoes and padded across the carpet to his studio, silently, not wanting to wake her if she were in bed. He let himself in soundlessly. There was no light under the door to her workspace, so she must be asleep. He turned on the light above his drafting table and stared into space for a long moment. The blank white board was frightening, but it was now or never. He removed his jacket and tie, and rolled up his sleeves. It was time to face what he had been so scared of for so long. He couldn't live this way any longer, without his work.

When the first light of the morning streamed in through the windows and woke him up, he rose from the leather couch where he had collapsed at some point last night and surveyed the results of his attempt. Dismal! And yet… He pulled out a sheet of paper from the middle of the pile that littered the floor. He looked at the line critically. Maybe… Maybe there was something there. He tacked it back up on the board and took up his pencil again. Although it was frustrating, he was beginning to feel alive again.

Emily hummed under her breath to the song on the radio as she pulled out the pan of shortbread. She loved Ellington. The rain had prompted her to make a batch of Juliet's Cookies today, well that and a wee bit of a block in her current story. Alright, three white nights, writer's block, and utterly wretched loneliness. Emily had finally admitted to herself that she missed him. Regardless of whatever problems they had now, they also had more than fifty years of history together; four children, thirty-eight years of marriage, and countless shared experiences. She missed the Teddy she had once known so well and so intimately, regardless of who he had become. Yesterday she broke down and put one of his sweaters on. That had not been a good idea. Surrounding oneself with the vestiges of what one wanted most was not healthy, she knew that. She had a good cry though, and that helped.

She still had the sweater on – it was a long (at least on her) white cotton tennis sweater that he bought on a trip to England a few years before the war. Teddy didn't play tennis, but when he was working he got paint all over anything and everything he wore. There was a stain on the left arm to prove it – burgundy and green in a blotch on the elbow. Emily confiscated it as soon as she saw it was ruined – Teddy was also wont to put on anything that was in his closet, regardless of what state it was in. He'd have worn it to the White House, stain and all, and not thought anything of it. She only stole his clothes to save him from disaster - at least that was her excuse. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail and the denim jeans were a bit too big and rolled up around her ankles. Alright, they were his too. She wore his clothes as regularly as she wore her own. This was not a new thing. It was so much easier to pull on whatever he removed and get down to work! She had done that for years.

Emily Kent was still a beautiful woman. She never really thought of herself in those terms, but almost everyone else did. She hadn't been a classic beauty of the Victorian ideal, but her slender, well-proportioned body was attractive in the modern, clean lines that were once again popular. Her hair was still striking, in a different way than it once had been; she had been blessed with two wings of white at her temples that made her look rather austere, but set off the angles of her cheekbones and shadowy eyes. Emily didn't color her hair. She might be a slave to fashion in some ways, but that was one line she never crossed. The specter of Elizabeth Murray would simply not allow it! Teddy hadn't painted her hair like this yet, anyway.

"Aha!" Emily thought of the ending to her story. She shut off the stove, grabbed a handful of cookies from the cooling rack and hurried over to her work table.


	3. Chapter 3

"Where's Gram?" Morgan demanded.

Teddy looked at her curiously, "What do you mean?" His grand-daughter was standing at the doorway to the dining room, wearing a man's dress shirt and a pair of denim jeans that were pegged at the ankles. He recognized both items as his own. Why were the women in his house so enamored with his clothing when they had vaults of their own? "Didn't she come down yet?" He hadn't seen Emily this morning and the bed was made, so he just assumed she was already up and about. He could never understand how she managed it all. She would write until the wee hours and then be on the go all day with the grandkids. Sometimes it exhausted him just to look at everything she did. He hadn't given her a day off in a long time. He was looking forward to telling her that he had started to draw again. Maybe they could spend the day together working. He needed a bit of inspiration, and working together was a lot like a holiday for both of them – or it had been, once upon a time.

Morgan shook her head, "No, we thought you guys were away." She dropped into the chair beside her grandfather and picked up the book she had been reading as the maid served her breakfast. She saw the look on her grandfather's face and shut it again. Granddad was very particular about etiquette at the table. "Sorry. Really wanted to see what happened." She dumped a spoonful of sugar into her tea and stirred it.

Jon snorted, "It's _War and Peace_. We know what happened!" He shoveled in a forkful of eggs and looked at his grandfather curiously, "Why aren't you at work?"

Teddy shrugged, "I decided to stay home today. Are you sure that you haven't seen your grandmother this morning?" He looked at the four young people who sat at the table in their private dining room in question. Robin's children had become theirs. He wasn't averse to the idea, it was just odd to think that they were surrogate parents to four more children, ranging in age from Jon's nearly eighteen years to Arthur's six.

Teddy the younger, who was eight, shook his head, "Nope. She wasn't here yesterday and I had to miss my piano lesson." He crunched on a piece of bacon and looked at his grandfather, "Mama will hit the roof when she gets back tomorrow. I was supposed to have the Tchaikovsky finished."

Teddy blinked, "She what?" Emily never missed anything with the kids. She knew their schedules like the back of her hand and always had them ready and waiting for their next activity. She had been like that with their own children too, he remembered. She was an amazing mother.

Jon nodded, "That's why we thought you two were away. She hasn't been around all week." He looked up at his grandfather and saw the shock registering on his face. "I'm sure she's just working or something." He tried to make amends as best he could, and then buried his head in his breakfast. Something was wrong. Gram hadn't been herself when she left on Tuesday, and it really wasn't like her to go anywhere without Granddad, at least not for this long. His grandfather had been away in London for a meeting, he knew that much. He just assumed that Gram decided to go there too, for some reason.

Teddy took a deep breath. "Perhaps," he murmured. He sat at the table with his grandchildren and talked about anything and everything under the sun as they ate breakfast. They were excited that he was home, that was for sure. Meanwhile, some unearthly, unholy thing inside him was waking; something borne of a fear of loss he hadn't acknowledged in years. Where was she? She hadn't mentioned going away, had she? He moved the cup of orange juice away from Arthur's elbow mechanically. Where was she?

When breakfast was over, Morgan took the two younger boys up to start their lessons and Jon went off to play tennis with some of his friends from Harvard. It was July and the two older children were both home from college and well able to look after their brothers. Normally, he would have spent the day with them and Emily. They could even have gone over to the Vineyard for a couple of days. Emily loved any time they were able to spend by the sea. That wasn't going to happen today. Teddy fairly ran up to their bedroom. She was working. He repeated the sentence over and over as he climbed the stairs. She was here. She had to be! He could silence the voice in his head by simply shouting over it.

She wasn't. He knew that in some fundamental part of himself, in the part of himself that the fear was strangling. He gingerly opened the door to their room. Their bedroom was one of the largest rooms in the house, and that meant it was enormous. It sprawled over the pillared porch that sheltered the massive front doors. The round glass skylight over their bed echoed the larger one over the foyer. Normally he loved it, loved seeing Emily bathed in sunlight when she woke from sleep. But today the beams that streamed through it were almost harsh. It was too bright for what he was feeling; fear in broad daylight was much more terrifying than fear in the dark. There was nowhere to hide. Their dressing rooms were on their sides of the bed and both had enormous closet spaces and bathrooms. Emily loved her bath and he had built her one that was fit for a queen. Beyond the bedroom itself were their two workrooms. Joined by a wall of shuttered French doors that they could open if they wanted to collaborate on something, the two rooms were identical in size and shape, but completely personal. He entered his own room and shut the door behind him. He looked at the work he had done the previous evening and earlier in the morning.

It wasn't his best work – far from it. But it was work. It was progress. It was something. It was the line of Emily's body when she lay on her side. It was nothing more than a line with shading right now. He had drawn it so many times before, so easily. He traced it lightly with his fingertips now. The line came more automatically. He picked up his pencil and a fresh sheet of paper and drew it quickly, without thinking. Better. He shut his eyes and set down his pencil. After a few moments, he stood and went to the door that they usually used to connect their rooms. The gauze curtain on her side defused the light. He listened for a moment and heard nothing. He knocked twice, and then opened the door. She wasn't here.

Everything in the room was spotless, ordered, and tidy - that was normal. Her typewriter was covered, and her dictionary and thesaurus stacked neatly beside it - that was normal too. But there were no journals or papers littering the table, and that was not normal. Teddy felt his heart clench horribly in his chest. Nothing. No Emily. He spun around and looked at the large sideboard where she usually kept her work in progress. All the file folders were gone, as was the battered old messenger bag that she carried everything in. It had travelled with her to the front lines in France, and to Africa, South America, and Australia when they went there together. She had carried her books to Shrewsbury High School in it, as a matter of fact. It was almost a part of her, and there was no longer any part of her here. He grabbed the back of her chair to steady himself. The reality of this hit him like a freight train. He sat down in the tall, Jacobean Farthingale chair that she loved to type in and stared at the envelope on top of the machine. His name was written in her minimalist cursive script.

The breath he exhaled was painful and ragged. He took the envelope in his hands and pursed his lips together. He remembered opening her letters on the front line and how much he loved hearing her speak to him across an ocean of fear and pain. Her words then brought him home and made the fight seem worthwhile. The way she wrote of love let him dream without fear. This envelope was not going to do that; this was the horrible reality of a nightmare that he couldn't seem to wake from. He opened it slowly and unfolded the plain, heavy bond sheet. It was not her personal stationary, just a sheet of paper that she would use to type her fair copy. Her handwriting crossed this page in deep, blue-black ink on the cream paper. At least it was not typewritten.

_"__Dear Teddy,_

_I don't know how to say this. I have tried to, so many times, but it seems that I just can't. Whatever words I have chosen have failed both you and me. I can no longer live this way, without the man that I love and will always cherish. I can no longer watch the gulf between us grow wider and wider, when all I want is the closeness we once had. I simply can no longer. Perhaps it is a relief to you – I don't know? That, in itself, says too much. For us to have come to this saddens me more than you seem to realize._

_I hope that this makes it easier for you to do the work you now seem to value. I need a different part of you than you are willing to give me, it appears. Thus, we are as we are today. There is no less love for you in my heart and soul than ever there was, and every memory of our life together is a precious gem of joy that I shall always cherish. I won't let who we have become color those._

_I can't give you what you need, and I need what you can't give, so this chapter must close, for both of our sakes._

_Always Emily"_

He shut his eyes and dropped his head into his hands, crumpling the letter to his chest. "Oh God, no…" He sobbed the words and shook with the pain that coursed through every inch of him. She was gone.

Robin found her father in his studio, sitting on a stool with pencil in hand, staring at the sketch on his drawing board, hours later. He seemed to not even have heard her come in. Jon had called her and told her to come. She had arrived back from Vienna only a few hours earlier and planned to come over tomorrow, but her son seemed to think it was imperative that she come immediately. She was a bit annoyed about it at first – driving all the way out to Long Island after travelling all day long was not ideal, but when she saw her father, she forgot about her own inconvenience.

She looked at her father's work and one thought crossed her mind immediately: Daddy had his art back. The sketch of her mother was impeccable and beautiful, and at the same time, tragic. There was something so painful about the lines he had drawn. It was her mother with her back turned completely. Robin had never seen this sketch, or anything like it before.

"Daddy?" she touched his shoulder gently.

Teddy looked up at her, blankly. "Hello, love," he whispered. He searched her face for the parts of her mother that he knew were there – the arch of her eyebrows, the tiny dent above her upper lip, and the slight slant at the corners of her eyes. He found them and the tears came instantly. Robin didn't look like Emily, really. She was more like Aileen Kent had been, but she had some of her mother's most adorable features. It was those that broke him.

Robin's eyes widened, "Daddy what is it? Where's Mum? " Jon had not been specific, he just said that something was wrong with Gram and Granddad. "Is Mum alright?" She looked back at the sketch. No, her mother was fine, that wasn't it at all. Her father would not have drawn her this way if she were ill or worse. Her father's whole body vibrated with silent anguish. "Daddy what? Tell me!" She took his hand in both of hers.

"She's gone," he whispered. He felt the pain again when he said it aloud. It was the crepitus of his broken heart. Maybe Robin knew where. "Is she staying with you?" His voice was desperately hopeful.

Robin shook her head, "No… Daddy, are you sure?" Mum leaving Daddy? It was as impossible as it was incomprehensible. Her parents were the unsplittable atom. They simply were together. The idea of them apart was totally illogical.

Teddy took a deep breath and nodded, "She left me a note. She's gone. She can't live here like this anymore. Oh God, what am I going to do?" He shut his eyes again.

Robin's forehead creased, in an exact replication of her father's. Things hadn't been perfect between her parents for a while. Losing Frank hit them both hard; it had shaken the very foundation of their family. It was something like what happened when Jed died, only more complicated. Her father was the one to take it to heart the most. He hadn't really been able to draw since Pearl Harbor; at least that was what her mother said. That was the one thing that Robin did know, so this return to work for him was a good thing. But why on earth would her mother leave when he started to work again? "You're drawing," she commented quietly.

He nodded, "She kept telling me that I needed to. She told me it would be better if I would just try to put it on paper again. Why didn't I listen?"

"Daddy," Robin shook her head, "This doesn't make any sense. Mum wouldn't just leave you. She would have at least talked to you about it. Maybe she just needs time to work. Maybe you misunderstood?" Her mother was an incredibly practical person; she never acted on impulse. Everything she did was planned and organized to the last detail. It was impossible that she would do something this drastic on a whim.

Teddy stood up and moved away from his daughter, "There is no misunderstanding, Robin. She's gone. She did talk to me, but I wouldn't listen. I was so wrapped up in myself that I couldn't see what I was doing to her… to us." That he could actually say this to Robin was like an admission of guilt to him. The only difference was that the sentence had been imposed already. A life without Emily was more than imprisonment, it was suffocation.

"Well go and tell her that!" Robin snapped back. "You can't just let this happen! You can't just give up!" Robin spoke louder than she should have, mostly out of fear. She knew what it was like to lose the one you loved the most in the world, and it was not a fate she was willing to accept for her parents. If they couldn't make it work, what hope in the world had she? "You have to try, Daddy!"

Teddy looked at his daughter sadly, "Of course I do, but I have no idea where she is." He asked the staff and they didn't know. In spite of how hard it was for him to hear, he called everywhere he could think of. He started with their Cashlin, thinking that was where she might go for solace. There was no answer. He tried their houses in Toronto and Montreal, their cottage in Martha's Vineyard, and the island in the Bahamas. He called Ilse and Perry in Ottawa, his Aunt Judith in town, his Aunt Katie on the Island, and even his younger daughter in Africa. He called Coco Chanel in Paris, and Martha Gellhorn in London – two of her closest female friends. No one had heard a thing from her. He then had his housekeeper call every hotel they stayed at with any regularity. Nothing.

"Come on Daddy! That is no excuse!" Robin spun away. "Think! Where could she have gone?"

They spent the next three hours together trying to figure out where Emily might be staying. Every idea they had turned up nothing. Robin called all of the hospitals and the police, just to be sure. She also called her sister and spoke to her at length, out of earshot of her father. Laura and Daddy did not always understand one another; Laura was more her mother's daughter. However, on this account, Laura was as worried as she, herself, was. She had no idea where their mother might be, and could not imagine what the rift might be about. As Robin expected, her father's call had not done anything except upset Laura. She rang off with a promise to keep her sister informed of what was going on.

There was a knock on the studio door well after 10:00 p.m.

Teddy rushed over and swung it open, "Emily!"

Richard, the Kents' butler, took a step back, "No sir, I'm sorry." He looked up at his employer, fearfully, "I just returned from visiting my sister and Mrs. Walton told me that you were looking for Madame. I don't know where she is, but she did leave this number, in case of any emergencies." He held out a piece of her heavy, bond personal stationary. "Forgive me, I had no idea."

Teddy snatched at the paper almost violently. He looked at the Arabic numerals scratched in pencil on the page in her hand. Embossed at the foot of the page was her personal signature – "…from the desk of E.B. Starr". It was a local number. She was somewhere in New York. He slammed the door on his butler abruptly and looked at his daughter, "Call it!" he demanded. He was shaking so hard that the paper rattled in his hand. He didn't mean to yell at his daughter, but he did.

Robin shook her head and stood up, "Not on your life! This is yours, Daddy. I can't do this for you." Her father rarely raised his voice, so this was completely out of character for him. However, she knew enough about him to know that it was fear, not anger that made him do so. She touched his shoulder as she passed him, "Don't let her go, Daddy. Whatever you have to do, don't let her go." With that, she left the room and went to see her children and call her sister. As much as she wanted to help him, she knew that this was something her father had to deal with alone. She could only hope that this rent in the fabric of their marriage was mendable.

Emily sipped at the glass of wine absently and ran her red pencil under the line of text. That was bad; weak description and weaker grammar. She took her pencil and scratched out, reordered, and rewrote it in the margin. She knew she was her own harshest critic, but there were some things that she just did not allow to even land on her editor's desk. This was the first draft of a new book about life on the home front during the Great War. It had taken her years to scare up the courage to write it down, although she had the plot sketched out since early after her return from France in 1919.

Emily did not consider herself particularly prone to melancholy or brooding over the past, but some of what she had seen in France could never be forgotten, and some of what she experienced at home shouldn't be. Her friend, Martha Gellhorn, was one of the very few women that she could share this with. They met at a party a couple of years ago and Martha ended up sobbing in Emily's arms about what she had witnessed during the liberation of the concentration camps in Austria. Emily read the other reporter's work and thought very highly of it. As it turned out, Gellhorn had come to the party specifically to meet her, in hopes of unburdening some of the inner turmoil she was unable to write out completely. As a young writer, she read Emily's war poetry and her collection of editorials, and hoped that she might find a kindred spirit. Although they were vastly different in age and experience, Emily and Martha became very good friends. They would never be the type of friends who would lunch or shop together, or call one another to share recipes. Instead, they were sisters on a higher level, sharing their experiences as women in a man's world. Even now, some thirty years after Emily's foray into journalism, the old boy's club still reigned supreme. Martha's ex-husband was testament to that. But Emily had never like Hemingway. After her meeting with the other reporter, Emily started this book. She wondered, abstractly, whether it would be E.B. Starr or E. Kent who signed her name on this MS at completion. What she had seen and experienced was entwined deeply in her relationship with her husband, but had she the right to use his name now? Had she the right to evoke this sense of connection with a man she could no longer live with?

On the table beside her, the phone rang. Emily stared at it for a moment, letting it ring a second, and then a third time. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Only one person had this number, and Richard would never disturb her. She had not told him to keep it from Teddy, just that it was only for emergencies. It had been six days and five nights since she left. So it was an emergency now, was it? That was insulting! She picked up the receiver just before the fourth ring, "Hello?" she said unevenly, trying to calm herself down.

He strained against the receiver to hear. It was her, it had to be. "Emily?" He had to speak slowly, so the echo didn't overwhelm him.

She took a deep breath, "Yes, it's me." She wanted to say more, but knew he couldn't hear well enough to discern more than the shortest phrases. She also had to speak slowly and not too loudly. This was a relic from his war injury that she was completely familiar with. He rarely used the phone, as a result. It was always a last resort for him. She wanted to think that was why it had taken him so long to call.

"I need to talk to you," he managed to speak the entire sentence, but had to hold the phone away from his ear to avoid the echo.

Emily unconsciously let her fingers stroke the receiver lightly, as if it were his hand, and waited for him to bring the phone close enough to hear. "Alright," she said. He had said 'need'. How many times had she said that and heard only, "Later," in return? She clutched at the phone, determined not to let this get the best of her.

He wanted to see her now. He wanted to grab her into his arms and hold her there so tightly that she would never be able to leave him again.

"Lunch tomorrow?" she had to have time to prepare for this. That and she needed to be in control of the situation. Right now she was far too angry and emotional.

"Yes," he agreed, reluctantly. "Where?" He knew she wouldn't come here. That was more than obvious. "I will meet you wherever you want." The longer sentence took its toll and he drew in a breath in a hiss.

Emily curled her feet underneath her and took a large gulp of her wine, "21 – Noon?" It was the only place she could think of where they would have some privacy, but would also be in public. She needed that. They couldn't have this conversation in private. Teddy had far too much control over her heart.

He nodded, and then realized that she couldn't see him, "Yes – Noon."

"Alright, I will see you then." Emily hung up the receiver as soon as she finished speaking. She knew that he couldn't carry on a conversation over the phone. It was no use trying, and it wasn't fair to judge him on what he said that way. She also had to ring off before he did, or she would wait interminably for him to do so. She would not lower herself to that.

Teddy held the receiver to his heart for long moments after her words. The pain in his ears was nothing compared to how much he missed her. Why had he not said that to her? Once upon a time their life together had almost not happened because he was too afraid to tell her what he really felt. He could not allow that to happen again. He could not survive without her. He lifted the receiver and spoke into it, hopefully, "Emily, I love you. Please come back to me?" She wasn't there to answer, and his heart sank.


	4. Chapter 4

He sat at the bar and watched the door, expectantly. He arrived at 11:00, just in case she was early. He had not slept at all, spending the entire night at his drawing board with the two dimensional Emily. He waited as long as he could stand to before leaving to come into town, pacing around his studio and then drawing repetitive and imperfect images of her. He showered twice and changed his clothes three times. In the end he wore a suit she had chosen for him in London and a shirt and tie that had been her gift to him on a birthday. He made sure that he shaved, and that his shoes were polished. He wanted to buy her a present, at least get her flowers or something, but Robin said that probably wasn't a good idea. He didn't like coming empty-handed. A thought struck him as he waited: he came to her with nothing but his heart when he asked her to marry him. Maybe it was the right thing after all. It was 12:10. He took a sip of his drink slowly. Maybe she wasn't coming. At 12:25, he drained the dregs of his second scotch. Emily was never late. He stared at the ring of condensation that his glass left on the polished bar and thought about how it felt to slip his ring on her finger the day they were married. He thought about how it felt to have her slip into his arms every night. Was all of that gone from him now?

The door opened and he saw her dash inside, shaking the droplets of water from the Mack that she held over her head. It hit him like another freight train, but this time is was just relief and the urge to draw her. Seeing her again took his breath away. How long had it been since he felt that flutter in his chest when she walked in the room? Far too long! The sparkling crystals of water in her hair shone like diamonds. She wore it up, as she always did in public; twisted into a tidy knot near the crown of her head. She wore some sort of white and navy striped shirt and navy, wide-legged pants. Chanel, he recognized – not because he knew or cared anything about women's fashion, but because Emily wore it exclusively when she wasn't wearing his clothes. Oh, for a pencil and paper to sketch her profile! It was such a relief to want and need to do that again! But, he knew this was not the time. He stood when he saw the maître d' motion toward him and he saw her look into the bar. He gulped back the nerves that suddenly rose in his throat.

"I'm so late!" she came toward him and shook her head. "I apologize. I didn't mean to make you wait." She stood in front of him and looked up. Every fiber of her wanted to reach up and kiss him, pull him into her arms and just will this away. She resisted that impulse and smiled at him instead, slightly.

He shook his head, "It's alright." It was anything but right! On the other hand, he would have sat here forever if there was even the slightest chance that she might appear and give him the chance to regain what he had lost. He reached down and tentatively brushed his lips against her cheek. He was aiming for her lips, but she turned her head at the last moment. Her skin was damp and she tasted like satin and spring. "It's raining," he said simply. He had to say something.

Emily nodded at his statement of the obvious, "Yes, it is. The EL was a madhouse. May I?" she motioned to the stool on his right. He was nervous, that was obvious. So was she. How did one start a conversation like this? Leaving had been one thing. In a way it was easy and obvious to just go. To now try to some sort of understanding about why would be awkward and difficult. Regardless, he needed to be able to hear her, so she asked for her usual place on his right-hand side. The old injury was not normally a problem, but if he was upset at all his left ear was useless. When his blood pressure rose, his ability to hear decreased.

"Of course," he shook himself and pulled it out for her, embarrassed at his own lack of manners. He had always just assumed that she would be there, at his side. That assumption, the fact that he had taken her presence so much for granted over the past few years, was why they were here. He raised his hand and ordered Scotch for them both. What was he supposed to say? He waited until their drinks were delivered, then took a deep breath, "I want you to come home."

Emily took a sip of her drink: Balvenie, single malt, one of their favorites. She didn't say anything in response. She didn't know what she was supposed to say or do, but she knew she couldn't just go back. It couldn't be about what he wanted, either. If they were going to make this work it had to be about both of them. Things were going to have to change if they were going to try to be together again. Last night, after she spoke to him and had time to calm down, Emily realized that she did want this to work. She did not want to be alone for the rest of her life, and Teddy was the only one she had ever wanted to share it with. She let his words rest without responding. A part of her needed to let him feel some of what she had for years. Her journal this morning was a jumble of emotional ranting and raving; pages of the pain and doubt that had filled her white night. Although she was feeling the aftereffects of far too many nights without rest, writing it down was the catharsis she needed – it always was. She hoped she was less likely to fall into an abyss of anger and self-pity today because of it.

Teddy shuddered in the silence. Okay, that wasn't the right thing to say, obviously. When he heard it through her ears he realized it sounded selfish. It was not his prerogative to want anything from her; he had to earn it. Suddenly he knew what he needed to tell her more than anything else. "I started drawing the other night," he said the words softly.

Emily snapped her head up to look at him, in surprise. She saw that he was still nervous, but this was a boon she had never expected. When he looked at her she smiled, for real. "That's wonderful!" Her joy was absolutely genuine. This was the best possible news she could hear today – it was the best news she had heard from her husband in almost ten years. It meant that there was hope.

Her smile made him shudder. It was like magic to him when she looked at him that way. He took a deep breath, "It's rough. I feel awkward and uncoordinated, but… It's coming back to me, I hope." But all I want is for you to come back to me. He couldn't say that right now, somehow. He wanted to, and vowed that he would.

"It will," she nodded emphatically. "The hardest part is just getting started." She twisted her wedding ring around her finger with her thumb, absently. She wondered what had made him start again, but didn't feel that she had the right to ask, somehow. She was forming her next sentence when another voice interrupted hers.

"Frederick! Emily! Great to see you!"

Teddy's eyes flashed darkly at the man in annoyance, "Good afternoon, Joe." He offered his hand, but desperately wished this hadn't happened. He glanced at Emily. She had turned away from him and was staring at the drink in her hand. He saw her set her shoulders back with a decision and place the glass down precisely. He laid his hand on her wrist to stop her from leaving. It couldn't end like this, not now. He was not going to leave the words unsaid.

Joe Kennedy was nattering on about something and then took the seat on Teddy's left. Emily knew that this was impossible. They could never discuss anything now. She wanted to meet in public so that their emotions could not get the better of them. But she should have realized, or rather remembered, that going anywhere in public with Teddy meant business could and would creep in. That was the last thing she wanted to even think about right now – that was the reason they were in this situation to begin with. They would have to find another time. Teddy's hand on her wrist changed everything.

"Hope you don't mind if I join you?" Kennedy asked, obviously expecting the answer to be yes.

Emily wanted to pull away, desperately. She wanted to wrench her hand from Teddy's and run, as far and as fast as possible. She didn't want to sit here and listen to him talk about politics and position. She didn't care how it looked. This was not the man she wanted to be with right now, or ever.

Teddy looked at his wife and felt the tension in her hand. He knew that she would walk out if he didn't do something. "Actually Joe, we're leaving." He stood up and pulled Emily with him, rather abruptly. He made their excuses and led her out of the bar. He quickly retrieved her coat and helped her put it on. When they stepped out onto the wet street, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry to rush you out like that. It just wasn't the time to start a conversation with him."

Emily looked up at him, "Don't apologize for that." She smiled at him gently, "Thank you for giving me the time." She was surprised that he had been willing to end the conversation at all. Kennedy was one of the people that Teddy usually made time for, regardless. It was still pouring out and she pulled up the collar of her coat as they stood under the awning, "Where to now?" She desperately hoped that he would not suggest going to Willomere. She couldn't do that.

Teddy took a deep breath, "Wherever you like. I just don't want to be interrupted any more, I need… we need to talk about this." He noticed that her coat was soaking wet and probably not warm at all. He pulled off his own and draped it over her.

At least he realized that! Perhaps she could handle doing this in private. "Let's get a cab then." They stepped up onto the sidewalk and Teddy hailed the first car to pass them. Emily pulled his coat closer around her unconsciously – it was habit. She had realized that there were certain minute and practical matters that fell solely into Teddy's purview in their relationship. Ordering dinner, hailing cabs, keeping her warm – they were all his. She had missed those more than she thought she would over the past few days. The sounds that her apartment made at night were rather frightening when she had to hear them all alone. For that and so much more, she needed her husband. She desperately hoped they could solve this.

Once they were in the cab, she spoke up quickly, "84 West 4th Street." She settled back beside Teddy and took a deep breath. She stared at her hands for a moment as the car moved slowly through the traffic. His arm rested on the seat behind her. Something that had been automatic for so long was somehow different now; she was aware of him in a way that she had not been for a long time. It was a sensitivity to his presence that had dulled over years of marriage, with familiarity and expectation. Emily thought that perhaps that might need to be changed too. This felt a bit awkward, but in a way it was a relief to just feel his nearness again. She knew that she could reach up with her left hand and take his so easily. It was what they both wanted. Not yet. She cleared her throat and tried to make conversation, "Robin is back from Vienna?"

"Yes," he looked out the window at the intersection they crossed. The address she had given was in Greenwich Village. He didn't know anyone in the Village other than his aunt and Janet, but he guessed that she must. That rankled. It was the New York epicenter of art and he had no idea what was even there. He'd spent too damned long on Wall Street to even know what was what in the art world these days. His wife had friends he had never met, or if he had he hadn't paid enough attention to know that was where she would go when she needed someone. What else had he ignored? What on earth was he supposed to say now?

They rode in an awkward silence the rest of the way. Emily stared at a crack in the vinyl of the seat in front of her. It looked a bit like a lightening fork, jagged and harsh. The very thought of it made her shudder. In spite of the fact that it was July, the air was cool and damp, and getting mostly soaked on the way from the train station had not done her much good. His coat helped, but she wanted to move closer to him and absorb the heat from his body. That was a luxury that she was no longer entitled to. She had given up that right when she walked out the door of their home. She shuddered again and hugged her arms about herself more tightly. To think that she might never have that again chilled her soul.

Teddy dropped his arm onto her shoulders, more out of desperation than anything else, and pulled her closer. He couldn't bear it when she was cold. Somehow it meant that he wasn't taking care of her. Well, that was certainly true right now. How long had it been since he had last been there for her when she really needed him?

Emily exhaled and moved into the embrace, "Thanks," she whispered gently. She knew he didn't hear her. It was a relief to her that he was still willing to be with her; that was something they could build upon.

The cab finally stopped and Emily reached for her purse out of habit. She never took cabs with Teddy, he always had a car. So when she was in one, she was used to paying. His hand moved quickly and stopped her. He handed over a bill she hadn't seen or felt him remove from his wallet, and helped her out, onto the sidewalk. Oddly enough, Teddy didn't usually pay for things - he never seemed to have to. She pulled her key out of her purse instead and stepped up the two concrete stairs to her door. She felt him behind her and realized that it was a comfort to have him there. She had returned to her flat last evening just after dark and wondered idly if it was really safe to be out and about alone in this rather questionable area of town. His body behind her was reassuring.

She used her shoulder to push open the heavy door. It had a bit of a trick to it – you had to pull the handle and lock toward you while you turned and pushed at the same time. She grabbed the mail from the floor and then stood up. He still stood on the doorstep, waiting for an invitation. That said something; he realized at least a bit of what was going on. "Come on up," she offered, trying to be as congenial and casual as possible, in spite of the reticence she felt. She shut and locked the door behind him, throwing the hallway abruptly into shadow. He let her precede him up the flight of stairs.

She tossed her keys and purse onto a chair at the top of the stairs and turned to face him, his coat was still around her shoulders. "Well, this is it," she waved her hand at the open area they stood in. She hated to take his coat off, but did and hung both it and her own up in the wardrobe, feeling its absence from her shoulders keenly.

Teddy stepped forward slowly. It was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. The light seemed to shimmer here, in warm, golden waves. Motes of dust spangled as they swirled about him. The rain had stopped as they drove, and now the warmth of the July sun was returning. "The light is incredible," he said softly. He stepped in further and stood in the center of the open living area. "Whose place is this?" He desperately hoped they wanted to sell. Hell, he would make sure they sold. This was an ideal studio.

Emily smiled to herself in satisfaction; she had known he would appreciate the light, and she also knew he would want to buy it. She still knew that much about the man in front of her. He would buy a whole house for one good window. "Mine," she said. He turned around in front of her and she saw the confused look in his eyes, "It's not for sale." Her grin widened.

"Yours? But how?" his forehead creased in confusion. How long had she owned this? Had she planned to leave him all along?

Emily made herself move forward to stand with him, "I've been married to you for thirty-eight years. I learned how to buy real estate too, you know." She touched his arm gently, stroking a line from his bicep to his wrist, "It was supposed to be a surprise for you. I suppose it is…" she let her voice trail off to nothing. Her fingers still rested on his hand, touching his wedding ring. She couldn't help but touch him, somehow. There had been a connection there once, a need to touch and be touched. There had been reassurance in contact, rather than reticence.

"Rather," he murmured. He stepped closer and took her hand, "Please don't leave me, Emily?" his voice was broken, but he was finally saying what he needed to. "I'll do anything you want me to. I'll sell the house, we can move back to the Island, whatever…" he shook his head. "Just don't leave me?" He felt somehow like he should get down on his knees and beg for this. It was worth it, if that was what it would take.

Emily dropped her head and looked at the hand that held hers. She squeezed it in spite of herself and shut her eyes. "I can't do it, Teddy. I can't live like that. We were lost to one another. I can't…" The tears fell onto their clasped hands. She didn't continue. She had to get a hold of herself! She couldn't give in just because he held her hand, as much as she wanted to.

"Oh God, love…" he pressed his lips into her hair and threaded his fingers into it. "I'm so sorry."

They stood that way for a long time. Finally she lifted her head and looked at him. She touched his cheek gently with her free hand, "I didn't want to leave you. I tried to tell you, but…" she shook her head. "It was like talking to a stranger; you never heard me. You never even heard that it was me talking to you. I can't do it… I can't live with someone I don't know."

"You know me, Emily," he whispered. "You know every fiber of my being." He desperately wanted to kiss her and make this all go away, but something inside him knew that even if they made love it would not make any difference, only cloud the issue and make everything more difficult for them both. They had to settle this completely before anything else would really work.

"Do I?" she asked quietly. "I did, once, but I don't know now. That scares me. I can't give myself to someone I don't know, Teddy." Physically it was her husband who stood in front of her, and she felt that he was hearing her now, but what about when the rest was in the way? Were they strong enough to fight that? She might as well say it. "I need you. I don't need houses and cars and business and money. That means nothing to me."

"It was all I had," his voice was a whisper.

Emily shook her head, "You had me. You've always had me." He still had her. This was what she feared more than anything – why she hadn't wanted to do this in private. What if they couldn't work this out? If he didn't understand that she was there for him, none of this could happen. And yet, 'whistle and I'll come to you, my lad' had never been more true for her than it was right now. But she couldn't lose herself in that again. She wouldn't survive it.

He shook his head, "I don't know how to say this to you. It hurts so much." He took a deep breath and tried anyway, "I've failed you too many times, Emily. I couldn't turn to you when I was never strong enough to be what you needed." He looked at her in desperation. He kissed the hand that rested on his cheek. He couldn't help but touch her.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Here it was. For the first time since their son was killed, he was opening up to her. "You have never failed me, ever… at least not before this. Teddy what is it?" Whatever it was had nearly torn their life apart.

"You lost two children because of me!" he blurted. "How can you ever forgive a man who…"

"Teddy!" she grabbed him into her arms and held onto him. "No!"

He set her away, gently, and walked toward the windows that looked out at the river. He didn't see anything real through the blur of his tears. He remembered coming home that night and seeing Jed. He remembered standing in the hallway and reading the telegram about Frank. It was those things that he saw instead of the view in front of him. It was the ultimate failure. He had failed the woman he loved when he let a part of her die.

"I _have_ four children because of you," Emily said gently – the italics were completely necessary. "_We_ have four children. We have four grandchildren. That's joy Teddy, not failure. Don't ever call our children a failure." She never spoke of their boys in the past tense. She never had.

He turned to look at her. There was nothing left but to finish it now, "I should have saved them," he whispered. Saying it out loud hurt, but it was a clean cut, keen and bright with pain. It was not the festering, agonizing guilt that had consumed him for the last nine years.

Emily felt her knees crumple and she slid down to the floor. How could she have not seen this? This was everything she had thought and felt. How could she not know that her husband, the man who had made their children with her, would not feel the same way? "How did I not see this?" she whispered, more to herself than to him. How many times had she thought the very same thing? How many times had she wanted to go back and feed Jed more often, give him more strength to fight it with? How many times had she wished that she understood the date she wrote in her diary years before it happened? December 7th, 1941 – the day the world as they knew it changed.

It was work just to exist. He had to make himself live through the pain. He had to take the air in and let it out, consciously. As he did, he realized that something had lifted, some unconscious weight was gone. Breathing came easier. The tears slowed. He opened his eyes and looked at his wife. She sat in the middle of the floor in a band of light from the windows, staring at him with a look that he understood. She was offering him everything she had. She was giving and he knew that he had to take. This was his one and only lifeline.

She watched as he crossed the floor and sat down beside her. She leaned against him and let him hold her. She let him past the wall again. He kissed her slowly and she kissed him back. There was no need to rush this now. Whatever was going to happen next didn't matter. There was only now and there was only them – together again.

She arched against him in the bed that had seemed so lonely to her this morning. "I don't remember…" she whispered the words close to his ear and held him closer. "Oh God, I can't remember," she shut her eyes and the tears came quickly, hot against her cheeks, hotter than his lips on her skin as they kissed them away.

"What? Honey, what don't you remember?" It was all familiar to him; every inch of her was mapped in his hands. He could trace every line, every contour, cover her in color and turn her tears into light. And yet, it was never the perfection he felt inside her.

She held his face in her hands and looked at him, gulping it back so she could speak, "Sometimes I can't remember what they looked like, but then I look at you and I see them. I don't remember the last time you held me like this. I can't live like that, ever again." She knew he understood when he moved inside her.

"Remember," he rasped and gathered her into his arms. "We'll never forget again."


End file.
